Singapore you have now tied with UK for reading me here's early photos too

Singapore you have now tied with UK for reading me

my daughter got her Bio-Chem results

she is Singapore in marks

as for you

is a tie enough for you

you need to push a bit harder

Watching Glow on TV

women's wrestling comedy

Singapore need I tell you how to never give up

or have you had enough of Reading me

Here I am as a child

if I had a son, would he look like me, when I was a child

though with mixed blood who can tell the Future....

ok Singapore you kind of did it

ok Singapore you kind of did it

YOU are in 2nd place on my Michael Casey from Birmingham England Blogger

YOU are in 2nd place on my Cartoons made from Words Blogger

Behind the USA

on my main Blogger , this one

ButcherBakerUnderaker you are still a few away from passing UK

Then you will be 3rd

Behind, Poland as USA

at least you are not banned or removed

from School for bringing down the Average

my small daughter told me that's what Singapore does

I was Head Boy in Primary School

more like a jailer locking up at dinner time

The noise in my head has been full on since I got up

I even missed a DR thing for ENT

then the shoulder pain kicked in

so that's 4 hours of torture

So if you think my writing is bad

at least you don't have the noise in my head

and the shoulder pain

Maybe I just need a better bra

DISCUSS

How Writers Write, but Not Me

Thursday, 25 April 2019

How Writers Write but Not Me

How Writers Write, but Not Me ©

By

Michael Casey

Oh no, not another self indulgent piece, I just want a STORY. Well if you Listen you may just discover something to help yourself to Write your own stories, then you won’t need me, just like Nannie McFee. So a writer will begin with an idea and then sketch it out, then he’ll put his first words on the page. I gave up the page in 1989, yes 30 years ago. I decided that I wanted things on a computer so I bought an Atari 520 which cost the earth, 300quid back then, maybe a month’s wages. But I was single and no wife or kids, a bit like being Gay or Lesbian, without the gay of lesbian bit. In clear English no Family, so no outgoings. Gay and Lesbians are the richest because a family costs money.

I had written 238 pages on a typewriter, The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker was finished on Leap Years Day 1988. After I finished I made two photocopies which I may have in a plastic bag somewhere. The original is lost. Then I got my Atari. I’m thinking maybe I actually got it at the end of 1988 and not 1989. Anyway I wanted my masterpiece to be on computer, and scanning wasn’t even thought of back then. So I thought I’d copy type it and so have it on a computer.

This was so boring a process, and new ideas formed so I wrote an expanded version of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker. It then ended up as 616 pages or so.I had also written Shoplife my comic play masterpiece, which was accepted by a Professional Theatre, though not finally produced. I wrote a couple more plays too, including They Are Knocking Our Street which was based on one chapter from BBU. So When I was writing an expanded version of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker I used the play as material to go back into the book. A circle so to speak, from chapter 8 to play then back into chapter 8.

I did not do any rewriting, or more “drafts” So effectively everything I write is first draft. Yes I don’t have a Monet on the wall like Jeffrey Archer, but he does 13 rewrites I believe, and that would kill the love of words in me. Maybe if he reads this he’ll send me a photocopy to hang on my wall, assuming I like the Monet, he can send an email first with a photo in, then on approval he can send the photocopy framed.

So there you have it, I am a storyteller, I hope you’d give me a seat by the fire and a glass of Stella Artois to wet my lips with. I sit here in front of the screen and let the story drip out or pore out as the words dictate. You could say I turn the tap on the cask and the story comes out. I don’t know how big the cask is, or even what is in the cask. I just hope it tastes good and is not bitter to the taste.

Because of my age and because of my decades or listening to stories on BBC Radio4 and  watching hundreds of films, and reading 100s or even a few 1000s of books, as well as watching 100s of bands perform in an upper room I have an idea of how a story should sound. Even a lifetime of going to Mass and listening to the Readings and the Priests give sermons all of this means I know words. Yes that’s a pompous statement perhaps, but I’ll say it anyway, I know words. I know nothing of:- cars, or electrics or brick laying, or carpentry, I’m not a carpenter’s son, I am the son of a Kerry Blacksmith.

Being a radio listener for so long before I started to write, 20 years of constant Speech radio, means I notice words, they mean more to me than most people. A mechanic knows by the sound if a car is wrong, just as a plumber or heating engineer will also know. So that is my only skill. Now that my Health means I have a pain day, then a good day, a no sleep night thanks to Tinnitus and all other manner of health annoyances, this means being able to Write means more to me than the average illiterate blogger.

There are nuances of words, just as there are nuances of pain. But lets stick to words. I write and I let it pour out, generally I don’t stop and rack my brain for a word here and a word there. If the words aren’t coming then finish the story. I’m old enough and experienced enough to know if what I’m writing flows or not. A story has its own life, it’s own flavour. Take an egg you can do this literally later on. Boil one egg, scramble one egg, poach one egg, fry one egg. Now taste test it, you can do it while you have it for tea with your old mum. Each egg tastes different. Scrambled and fried would be my favourite, hard boiled would be third, as for poached I’d give that to the cat. You could mix in Heinz beans as you scramble eggs and then you have another flavour. Or soak the egg into bread before frying it, then you have French toast which I discovered in 1980 in Boston Mass.

Now accidentally I’ve given you a cookery lesson. A paragraph ago I did not even know I was going to write that. I have SatNav that gets me to the bottom of the page, the path of words leads the way, leads the story. Just as I didn’t know a sentence ago that I’d write the path of words, SatNav led to the choice of the path of words. Yes it really is that quick and random.

This morning at breakfast I said to my girls that my body was all broken and cracked with pain, just like Humpty Dumpty, would I, could I even be put back together again whole and pain free? One daughter laughed aloud, she’s sat in the corner like Little Jack Horner revising for her A levels. I added the Humpty Dumpty line in the morning because it’s Easter and we had Easter Eggs, so it was a subliminal line, just as Little Jack Horner was a second ago.

Subliminal influences feed the fire of my imagination, but having over 50years of memories and more, maybe 56 years of memories as I can remember when my sister came home from hospital as a newborn. There is a pool of memory to draw from, or in my case an Ocean to draw from, so I cast my net and pull the fish ashore, and then I feed the Page and all my readers . That’s all I’m going to say now as my stomach needs feeding, and no I won’t be eating Birds Eye fish fingers.

p.s. try always to finish with a smile line, then you’ll be remembered

@@@@@@@

somebody was reading this on my Cartoons Made with Words site

so, I decided to bring it back here, my main site

Michael Casey from Birmingham England is my final Blogger site

those are for security backup mainly

then my Wordpress has the most TRANSLATIONS

https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/

so now you know

EVERYTHING should be here on my Main Blogger

but I'm not AI, I'm just perfectly imperfect

If you like scars I have plenty, just like in Shrek

 

Singapore should equal my UK readers numbers sometime tomorrow,

 24 hours from now maybe

So God Bless you,  both houses on Rightmove are still for sale

so you could come and visit and cook for me

or just spoil me.

I can hear the laughing already, you are all so CRUEEEEEEL

Masala club in Singapore may get somebody to pretend to be me

120 kilos 5 feet 10, and that's just my backside

i did message them,

so have a flash mob  and demand Michael Casey

they can project me on the ceiling

that's your lot for today 1st July 2023

and yes, Pray for Peace in Ukraine, which means PUTIN leaves

Just run away back home to Moscow and leave Ukraine alone

me and my big daughter who's done her BioChem Finals now

Now is the time, again

 Now is the time, again (c)

By Michael Casey

Well that's a title, lets see where it goes, a bullet point thing no doubt

as the pain and noise in my head makes my head bow down

Or is God reminding me to show a little bit of respect

I bow to no man, a nod hello, but bow never

Respect has to be earnt

Courtesy you get free, without bending the knee

But Politicians and their ik beware, you prove your worth to me 

As you get older you may expect respect

But that is a mistake

and in Korea, to me, all this Age nonsense is just that, Nonsense

They have just voted to have the DOB as age

In Kdramas it always seemed a bit daft this obsession with age

And as for FORMAL speaking

That's just a joke

I speak the same way to everybody whatever age the are

I never talked down to my kids when they were children either

I talk down to the cat maybe, and Totoro just sneaks out

for an all night drinking session with the foxes in the woods

She's a bit of a whoER cat, Irish pronunciation

But to me, just be the same to everybody

never suck up

Money and Power are transitory

Everything ends in the grave

and for 10 years of pain, it feels like I've been travelling to mine

Maybe  15 more years, but really QUALITY not Quantity

Yes as a child I used to say 100 would be a good age

But most kids now, will live till 100 anyway

SO SAVE

What more can I say, age is in the mind not the body

A battered and bruised person like me can still be 20 in my head

so if I suddenly run away, or walk gingerly away

with a 26 year old girl, she would be the older woman

because I'm still 20 in my head

Newspapers are full of fake shock when age different couples

are coupling, and whatever else they do in gossip magazines

If Picasso can carry on, so can I

Well in my imagination, I'm already old enough to be my kids Granddad

I'll get a Tsunami of complaints now for this post

That's if any of you are reading me

You are all out Dancing in the Streets with PRIDE

I just hope the bin men end their strike

Ot maybe our Pretentious Councillors can just 

tidy the streets for us

Before the RATS come

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I annoyed somebody in the Middle East today, so here is something to read

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6 years on since I wrote this

Philosopher in Pyjamas

Philosopher in Pyjamas ©

By

Michael Casey

Clever people don’t wear pyjamas, they are nude in bed. As I am, because my bum is just too big for pyjamas, and so when I got my own house 30 years ago I ditched pyjamas. Ok, you can all reach for the sick bucket, 30 years not a prude.

So why are we more relaxed in our PJs and not in our office attire? And why are we so cool when we are in the nude, obviously because we have no warmth from our clothes. Its ideas that keep us warm, its in our PJs that preconceptions are lost, and yes you can see it coming, when nude preconceptions can end and conceptions begin. Its 22.45pm here in Birmingham so you’ll have to forgive my opening.

When you are chilled, again through lack of clothes you are more inventive, that’s why companies have dress down days. These days make us all equal, or so is the theory. I find wearing comfy shoes makes me more relaxed, ask any woman when she comes home from work and throws her heels off. As she pours herself a glass of wine. Me a bottle of Dr. Pepper and my brown suede shoes does the trick.

Ditto with soft furnishings, if you are sat on a nice sofa and not on your hard office chair then you are more relaxed and creative. Google and such places are like a Wacky Warehouse such is the level of low key and dress down. Perhaps a toilet made out of soft furnishings would end constipation as well.

I try and have a comfy chair as I sit here talking to you all,with a bit of Gerry Rafferty playing in the background. As I am heavy and sit in the chair a lot they only last a year on average. I may replace the one in the photo soon, perhaps I should ask for a chair sponsorship from an office furniture company such as Staples. This story is brought to you by Staples printed at the bottom of my story. Or try and get a computer company to offer a free PC and printer, and not forgetting free unlimited Broadband. Sadly nobody anywhere would be so kind.

Its hard to know what anybody will like about a story, some people won’t get the joke, like one I tried to make about Scholes and Scholls tonight when I spotted somebody wearing a football shirt. All I can do is put my words out, on the page or live to people I meet and hope they get it.

 You have to be philosophical about it. If you get laughs 90% plus of the time then you are doing well. Some people will always think I’m an idiot, and not like what I say. I don’t like the Harry Potter books but a billion people do. Who is right on that one? Me or the billion readers?

Have you got the strength to stick to your guns against a billion to one others? Again it depends on your self confidence, and your self belief. Yes things are not always Black and White, and modern writers say White and Black to be trendy and thereby become a herd animal with words.

There are many shades of grey which is a Monkees’ song, and you have seen my hair after all. But you must always be true to yourself. But never say I’m Sorry But, say this is My Opinion, never say sorry but for having an opinion, you’ll be apologising for the colour of your eyes next. Though you do know I have nice eyes, its just everything else about me that stinks, especially my writing. See I stole the words from your mouth, perhaps I should go into Politics.

I have to watch the Press Preview on Sky now before bed, so I’ll leave you all pondering on tonights words. If you are as old as me you will remember Two Tribes by Frankie Goes to Holywood, if I remember right there was a video of Reagan and Gorbachev wrestling. Perhaps politicians should mud wrestle naked, then we can see all their shortcomings. And then laugh as we vote, it would be great reality tv.

Or am I just too far ahead of my time? Tick Tock the clock stops for no man. And when it does we argue with God that we just want a bit more time with our family. We feel exposed as God see us all naked, without any Philosophy. So if you are reading this God, I really did want to live till I was 100, but can I share my pain with a few sinners. I’ll let you chose who. Or am I trying to be too much like a god.

Singapore you've nearly done it, more readers in Singapore than UK if you Carry On

Singapore you've nearly done it, more readers in Singapore than UK if you Carry On

I'll be disappointed if you turn out  to be an AI Bot

I'd rather kiss a lady, so here's a Kiss for my Singapore girl

x

As for me my Head is Exploding

Because its great news day today at home

One daughter has learnt to ride a bike, on grass with video

grass as in green grass not substances, naughty people reading this

All smoke makes me vomit

and any passing substances give me a massive headache, just passing on the wind

the other  daughter is off to PRIDE in London

she has great friends down there

So hello boys

She's not Lesbian, but parties are parties after all

my other daughter had to pretend to be,  to get into some clubs

they even gayed up a straight guy, just so he could get in

Music and Safety combined

so if you are having a Pride thing anywhere just be safe and happy

Magic Mike, no not me, my girls saw that too once

and one daughter was serenaded by Magic Mike himself

at the end of the show, we have video to prove it

must let Totoro the cat out her bells are jangling

If Putin had more Pussy Cat dolls in his life

and a bit more PRIDE maybe he would not have invaded

But be careful out there

And speaking of Music, thank you Jeff Bezo for the

Unlimited Music Offer, I've signed up today

Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England

A Tearjerker, pure Kdrama maybe, Michael and the chink in the wall (c) by Michael Casey

Michael and the Chink in the Wall ©

By Michael Casey

 

Michael was all alone in the house, he was abandoned, left all alone with just the mice for company. He was the kitchen boy in the Master’s house, he’d fetch and carry and be allowed to sleep in a corner, just like a dog, but a dog would at least have a basket. He was actually the Master’s son, but when the pantry maid had died in labour, Michael was kept in the kitchen, the Master agreeing not to send him to the Workhouse, a promise he kept as the maid died before him.

Being the eldest, Michael should have inherited the house and the fortune, but he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The non bastard children were in fact very ugly, but the Master had married for a fortune, and not for love. Meanwhile Michael slowly rotted in the kitchen, while snotty noses enjoyed their Victorian life.

Michael would sit and dream on the cold flagstones, just shadows on the wall for company. Sometimes one of Charles Dickens’  stories would appear wrapped up with carrots or turnips. Michael loved Charles Dickens his stories were so good, what with the cliff-hangers, one day Charles Dickens would be famous. The cook just laughed, but she enjoyed listening to Michael reading out the stories while peeled the spuds. That was the only reason she had taught Michael to read, so she could entertain her, she had in fact invented Radio, minus the radio that is, Listen with Mother if you like.  

Every night the staff went to the attic to sleep while Michael shivered in a corner, it was a slow death of the spirit apart from Charles Dickens. Michael had to try and fall asleep before the kitchen fire went out, or he would not sleep at all, the cold being so bone chillingly cold.

There was a chink in the wall from the house next door and this was Michael’s tv, without the tv that is. For in the next house everybody was always happy and gay, the servants laughed and even danced. They had a good Master, their fire was always on, the Master liked a warm house, he had made his fortune in India so he liked a warm house.

If Michael squeezed himself against the chink in the wall he could hear the singing and smell the cooking, he could pretend he was with them in the warmth of company and of real warm. There was  actually a bit of heat coming from that chink in the wall, Michael loved that house and that kitchen, it was so full of life and joy.

At night Michael fell asleep mumbling the songs that he’d heard from the next door household. In the middle of the night he’d regularly awake, his toes numb with cold, his bum freezing too. So he’d get up and stamp around. Only shadows for company, the one candle in a jar his only illumination. Michael would hold the jar and press it against his body for warmth.

Even the shadows on the wall had pity on him, they would dance about and form faces of people dancing and talking, trying to amuse and console Michael. The very stones cried for him, shadows of tears fell. Michael loved their company in his daily Dark Night of the Soul, a shadow is great company if you have no friends, if you have to decide whether to burn Charles Dickens for warmth or save him so he can warm your soul. Such a choice, warmth of the spirit or warmth of the body.

The same shadows came night after night, they were in fact peopled by stories from Charles Dickens, if your body is so cold, then all that is left is the spark of soul. Or distant smells and laughter coming through the chink in the wall. So your imagination sees things in the dark, you see what you want to see in the cold and dark. You see Hope. You see Love. You see Laughter. You see dancing shadows.

The cook gave Michael a sweet, it was covered in muck and feathers, she’d found it in the street when she’d been to the butchers, a few weeks previously. She had only just remembered it. It was a present for being such a good boy. It was also a goodbye, Michael would be 9 next week so the Master had decided to let Michael find his own way in the world. Michael would have to leave.

The Master was going to buy a puppy for his legitimate children, Alpha the dog would need a space in the kitchen, Michael would have to leave to make room for Alpha the dog. A dog is a man’s, a Master’s best friend after all. The promise to the pantry maid had been kept, 9 years Michael had squatted, now he was man enough to find his own way in the world.

The Master ordered that Michael be locked in overnight and then in the morning when Alpha arrived Michael would be shown the door. Michael stuffed all the Charles Dickens in his pockets, he’s freeze one last night, but Charles Dickens would be part of his new life whatever and wherever that may be.

The walls wept, if only Michael could squeeze through the crack in the wall, if only he could sing and dance with the neighbours, they were having a Christmas Eve celebration. Michael fell asleep dreaming that very same dream. He was dancing and drinking punch, the maids all gave him a dance and a peck on the cheek. They all loved him, he was not the bastard son, unwanted and thrown out to make room for a  dog.

Michael danced and laughed all night long, he was so happy, a much loved member of the family. He was smiling in his sleep, clutching Charles Dickens in his hands. That was how they found him in the morning, curled up like a dog, but with a smile on his face, and Charles Dickens’ new story in his hand A Christmas Carol. Michael had died happy in his sleep. But how he got next door through a locked door nobody would ever know, not even the stones would tell. Sometimes all the love you need is a chink in the wall.

that story is 7 years old

I am a well rounded writer, in every sense